


In Living Color

by Kefi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Team as Family, found family trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kefi/pseuds/Kefi
Summary: Finch-Souers Academy, a private boarding school that caters to individuals with genius-level IQs comes under investigation when 3 students turn up dead and another goes missing. What starts as a relatively standard case for the BAU team quickly becomes much more complicated, for the investigation not only unveils a hidden serial killer, but also reveals corruption that implicates both the academy and several high-level government intelligence agencies as well.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> Short chapter to begin things. :)

_"There is no darkness but ignorance."- Shakespeare_

“We’re heading to Alaska,” Penelope Garcia announces while fiddling with the small remote control in her hand. Six file folders are flipped open, and their gazes train on her as they wait for Garcia to continue presenting the case. The buttons on the remote, however, are stuck, and for several moments the group silently watches as she manhandles the knobs on the device. Nothing immediately happens, so she smacks the handheld none too gently against the podium nearby. It seems to finally give in, for images appear on the monitor. The photos are of three teenagers: one girl and two boys. The first has been shot in the head, the second clearly lobotomized, and the third forcefully stabbed through the eyes with a blunt object. They all bear clear signs of an attempted burning. 

Garcia gestures at each with the laser pointer in her free hand, but her gaze is locked on the table in front of her, pointedly not looking at the screen.

“Three 17 year old teenagers from Kotzebue were found dead and one is still missing,” she says. “Positive Identification was made using dental records. Postmortems of Suzan Carson, Charlie Hatcher, and Johnathan Knowles indicate that COD was massive trauma to the head, ranging from gunshot to attempted lobotomy to stabbing. The unsub tried to burn the bodies, but was for the most part unsuccessful. It was most likely meant as a forensic countermeasure. Our victims were current students at Finch-Souers Academy, a private boarding school that caters to students with genius level IQs.”

“Oh my God there’s going to be mini-Reids everywhere,” whispers Derek Morgan, mock horror in his voice. 

“The way in which the unsub is killing the students is impersonal, yet the disposal method suggests the exact opposite,” continues Aaron Hotchner, ignoring the interjection. “He’s most likely burning the bodies because they can be tied back to him. Garcia, we’ll need you to focus on victimology, see where they overlap.”

She nods in acknowledgment, clicking the remote again. The screen changes to several new images. The most prominent is a school picture of a young girl smiling. The others show close-ups of the bodies. 

“Dana Gray was reported missing 14 hours ago by school officials. She’s an orphan, and has no known next of kin. The bodies are dumped exactly 3 days after they go missing, so we have-”

“-Exactly 58 hours to find her,” finishes Spencer Reid. “What’s with the colored bands on their wrists?” 

“Pump your brakes, sweet cakes. I was getting to that,” responds Garcia. “Some evidence actually did survive the fires. The colored wrist bands are used to denote academic specialties as well as the age group, so that should help narrow victimology further. A flash drive was found in the first victim’s pocket, and a handwritten note written in code was found in the third’s. Surprisingly the note survived the fire, but the flash drive did not. Data wasn’t able to be recovered due to the extensive damage. Printouts of the note are included in each of your case files.” 

“How long do you think you need to decode this, Reid?” asks David Rossi, glancing down at the jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols that make up the message. 

“It shouldn’t take too long. The message uses a distinct combination of polyalphabetic Porta Cipher, Straddle Checkerboard cipher, and Fractionated Morse Cipher. Thankfully they chose a classical algorithm that was invented in the 1950's before computers, so I should be able to do it by hand…” He trails off, lips moving as he focuses on the problem before him. 

Emily Prentiss leans over and gently pokes him in the cheek. 

“It’s so lifelike,” she comments, jokingly awed. Morgan laughs. 

“Oh, and wait. There’s more weirdness,” continues Garcia animatedly. “The coroner confirmed that the first victim, Suzan, had given birth several years ago, but there’s no medical file or paper trail for the child. On another, totally unrelated note, for the last month I’ve also been monitoring cyber activity from IP addresses that triangulate to that area. They’ve been unsuccessfully attempting to hack our system.” 

“What does that mean? A taunt?” asks Jennifer Jareau. 

Garcia shrugs. “I have no clue. I just thought I should include it in the report.”

Reid looks up, suddenly snapped out of his reverie. “I think I know.” 

All eyes turn to him. 

“I’ve finished decoding the message. It says, and I quote: ‘I have something for you. Find me before they do.”

“Well that’s certainly not, _not_ a taunt,” remarks Prentiss. 

“No… I don’t think so,” says J.J, shaking her head. “Look at the writing.” 

“The verbage used coupled with the physical handwriting characteristics suggests it was written by one of the students. Regardless of how intelligent they are, I don’t think the unsub could be that young and successfully pull off this crime. I think they’re calling for help, trying to tell us something. And they’re getting desperate.”

“The school provided handwriting samples of the victims for comparison. They don’t match the note,” says Garcia. 

Hotch rocks forward in his chair, preparing to stand.

“The local police department has officially requested our help. The clock is ticking and we need to find whoever authored the note if we have any hope of finding Dana alive. Wheels up in thirty.” 

* * *

“Did you know Kotzebue, Alaska is one of the most dangerous cities in the United states? It has a significantly higher rate of crime than the rest of the U.S., averaging 3,238 violent crimes per capita,” states Reid, settling into his airplane seat. 

Morgan frowns at the folder in front of him. 

“Could that explain the lack of consistency with the murder weapon? There may be more than one unsub. Multiple signatures.” 

“He crosses gender and racial lines as well,” adds J.J. 

“I’d say that’s pretty unlikely. The geographic profile puts the kill zone squarely within the campus boundaries. Coupled with the low population density, I would say the probability of it being multiple killers is near zero.” 

They all reach for their seatbelts as the plane begins to roll down the runway.

The laptop suddenly lights up, and Penelope’s face appears on the screen.

“Hello my lovelies! I have done some light digging in the last twenty minutes, and I have already found some overlap with our victims. It’s a relatively small victim pool so there’s already a lot of commonalities across the board, but I _think_ I’ve stumbled on something potentially important. From what I can tell, all of our victims, even our missing one, are all orphans. No parents, no extended family, all of them living at school for the entire year. Their legal guardians are all registered as administrators at the school. The school’s history has also been squeaky clean for the last 20 years, which coincides with the last change in school administration. I think something _hinky_ is going on, and I’m looking into that, but nothing yucky to report so far. Lastly, I did some extra looking into the wristband thing, and excuse my language sir, but I would just like to say: they are all Hogwarts up in this bitch.”

“...excuse me?” Asks Hotch, nonplussed. 

“I’m serious. The wristbands are _so much more_ than I was told. They do designate academic specialties and age group, but their function is way broader than that. These bands determine the student’s entire school life. Where they live, who they socialize with, what they learn, etc etc.” 

“What does each color band signify?” asks Morgan. 

“No dice there yet, Brown Sugar, but I’m on it like mud on a pig. Baby Girl, out,” says Garcia, throwing up a glittery-nailed peace sign before ending the call. 

The team lapses into silent contemplation for a moment. 

“Okay,” begins Hotch. “When we land, Rossi and I are going to talk to the school officials and see what insight they can provide. Emily and Morgan will head to the crime scene. Reid and J.J will talk to the students. All the victims were in the 17 year old age group, so you should focus on them in particular. Reid, you’re going to be essential during this case. I need you on your best game.”

“We have a Voldemort to catch,” mutters Morgan. 

Everyone looks at him, perplexed. 

“What? I read,” he says. 

  
  



	2. Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins, and immediately it becomes apparent that something is very off about this school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. As always, thank you for the kudos and comments. They make my day :)

“I’m S.S.A. Derek Morgan and this is S.S.A. Emily Prentiss. I believe our technical analyst called ahead?”

The uniformed officer stands from his swivel chair, hand outstretched to shake both their hands. The motion knocks a sheaf of papers off the cluttered desk, and the officer beside him grunts, disgruntled, now having to bend over and retrieve the fallen documents. 

“Yes,” the man replies, totally unaware of the activity at his back. “We have a board set up in our conference room for when the rest of your team arrives. Will that work?”

“That’s perfect. Thank you,” responds Emily. 

He smiles jovially, and motions for them to follow him toward the back of the station, toward the exit. 

“I’m detective Rodney Anderson. I’m the one who submitted the official report to call you in. Thank you for coming so quickly. I wish we were meeting under different circumstances.”

“Us too,” says Derek, grimly. 

Another officer joins them as they walk, and Anderson pats his back in greeting before introducing him to the two agents. 

“This is detective Angelo Richards. He’ll be taking you to the crime scene. I’m in the middle of another unrelated investigation and unable to spare the time. Thankfully, it’s not a far drive. The bodies were found near one of the administration buildings at the academy, which is only a few miles away from the precinct.” 

He waves his goodbye, and turns to head back inside. Angelo beckons them out the exit door and into the parking lot. He had apparently lucked upon a front row spot this morning, for it’s only a few steps before he is politely holding the door open for Emily and Derek to climb in before climbing into the driver's seat himself. The radio crackles to life, and for a few comfortable minutes they listen to the police scanner fill the otherwise silent car. By the time they’ve pulled out of the parking lot and into the street, at least 5 radio calls have been made and subsequently answered. The last, a domestic dispute involving a child, seems to spur Angelo into speech. 

“We’re fairly used to crime here, but it’s always so much harder when it’s children,” he begins, looking at them both through the rear view mirror. “I’ve known a lot of these kids since they were born. I hope you find who’s doing this before it gets worse.” 

“We will,” promises Emily. 

“Our team is the best at what we do. We’ll be here as long as you need,” adds Derek. 

Angelo flips on his turn signal, and for a moment the only sound is the quiet _click click_ of the mechanics. 

“I appreciate it,” he says, already nearing the academy. They turn into the parking lot, and stop near the entrance by the fire lane zone. The sign declaring _No Parking_ is squarely in their field of vision, but Angelo deliberately ignores it. The two agents quickly climb out, but he rolls his window down to get in some parting words. 

“Allen Howard, Velma Barfield, and Eric Armstrong should still be on scene,” he says, gesturing toward the tent that’s within eyesight. Crime tape delimits the perimeter of the scene. “Howard was responsible for the postmortems. He’s not officially an M.E., but he has worked alongside our precinct for years and has a spotless record. Barfield is the S.S.O for Finch-Souers academy and can offer more insight about the personnel and students at the school than we can. Armstrong helped with the initial evidence collection and filled out many of the reports you’ll have access to. Lastly, remember that you’re always welcome to call me if you need anything else.” 

“We appreciate that,” says Morgan. He taps the hood gently, and Angelo pulls away with a final departing wave. 

Prentiss and Morgan head toward the tent yards away, the light snowfall crunching under their feet with each step. The cops on scene look up as they see the pair approaching. 

A tall lanky man, presumably Howard, comes over as they near the tent, and hands them both identical print-outs of the M.E. reports. 

“You must be S.S.A. Morgan and Prentiss,” he says, shaking their free hands. “Let me walk you through what we’ve accomplished so far. There’s honestly not much to it,” he laughs lightly. “Just the pictures we took. But don’t worry, we had the scene well-documented and photographed before we dismantled it.” 

“...dismantled it?” asks Emily, concerned. “We would have preferred if you had left the scene undisturbed.” 

A stocky woman sidles up to Howard’s side, Velma Barfield. She clearly had heard the beginnings of the conversation. 

“Well we had to dismantle it in order to cremate the bodies for the victims' burials,” she points out, a little exasperated that she has to explain such a seemingly obvious conclusion.

Morgan’s face goes perfectly still, his expression one of careful neutrality. 

“Why would you do that?” he asks, barely keeping his voice level. 

Emily puts a restraining hand on his arm. 

“He means, it would have been more prudent to leave the crime scene untouched. Our behavioral analysis is dependent on the crime scene being left in its natural state. You’ve effectively destroyed all the useful evidence.”

Barfield and Howard look at each other, identical expressions of confusion on their face. 

“Well it’s not like you won’t be able to still do that,” says Howard, a little defensively. “Like we said, we had the scene well-documented. It’s all in your files.” 

Morgan sighs, cracking his knuckles, trying to release some of his aggravation. “Show us what’s left of the site.” 

Howard motions the third man, Eric Armstrong, over. 

“Armstrong photographed the initial scene. He can answer any questions you have.” 

“What can I do for you, agents?” says Armstrong, a blond, mustached man. He puts his hands on his hips, his uniform straining over his plump form. 

“We saw the photographs you took, but they don’t capture the behavioral element which is, obviously, essential to behavioral science. We were just wondering if you observed anything during your initial assessment?” asks Derek. 

“Yeah, I noticed some stuff,” he says, a messy wad of gum clearly visible in his slack-jawed mouth. “The brains of the victims were entirely destroyed. It was pretty graphic. Almost like like someone stuck a whisk in there and just kinda-” He flaps his hand violently to illustrate his point. 

At their lack of reaction, he settles once more with his arms crossed across his chest. 

“Is there anything that remains from the initial crime scene? Any physical evidence?” asks Emily, noting the man’s defensive stance. 

“Only the fountain pen. It was sent out for processing but it may have been disposed of already.” 

Morgan sighs again, audibly. His eyebrows twitch with his building frustration. Emily’s hand returns to his arm, squeezing gently. A reminder to keep his cool. 

“Can you go get it?” asks Emily, similarly losing patience. 

“Yeah, okay,” says Armstrong, turning with a soft grunt and heading back inside the canvas structure.

He’s gone for only a few moments, but Emily and Morgan manage to have an entire conversation without speaking, their unspoken expressions more than sufficient to convey their thoughts.

Armstrong returns and hands them the evidence bag containing a single expensive-looking fountain pen. 

“Got it just in time,” he says proudly, with a wide grin. 

Morgan ignores him, opening the ziplock and pulling out the pen. He tests the ink on his non-dominant hand. Emily leans in to inspect it closer. 

“It’s a Goulet fountain pen,” observes Prentiss, her eyes squinted from reading the small print on the side of the instrument. 

“Purple ink,” adds Derek. “Most likely means the author of the note is female. You should let Garcia know. Bring her in the loop about… everything.”

Emily acknowledges him with a nod, raising the mobile to her ear and walking a few steps away for some privacy. Garcia picks up on the first ring. 

“Go for genius,” she says in greeting. 

“Hey Penelope. We think the person who wrote the note is female.” Then, quietly, “We also need you to do a full background check on our new friends at the force.” 

“Roger that, I’ll update Hotch as well.” 

* * *

“You must be S.S.A’s Rossi and Hotchner. I’m Stanley Finch III, and this man here is Sydney Souers,” he says, gesturing to the short man next to him. “We’re the co-principal’s of this academy.” 

They shake hands near the portico and swiftly head inside.

“How can we be of service today?” asks Souers. 

“We would really appreciate it if you could provide a directory of all staff members working here for our technical analyst to review,” says Hotch. 

Finch frowns, his eyebrows pulling together. Souers shifts slightly, looking distinctly uncomfortable. 

“We have a very low student to teacher ratio. There’s 10 department heads, one for each of the color groups. That doesn’t include all the professors working under them, so it’s going to be a lot of names,” reports Finch.

“Our analyst is very capable and can manage that quite easily. I know it’s a pain, but it’s necessary to the success of our investigation. If it’s easier, let’s start with the department heads,” says Rossi. 

“We’d like to speak with them if possible as well,” adds Hotch. 

“Yes, of course.” Finch pulls out his mobile and begins sifting through an electronic directory. By the time he has sent it off, Souers is waving down another administrator who is walking down the other side of the corridor. She acknowledges them, the _click clack_ of her expensive heel sounding her approach. When she comes close enough, Souers leans in and whispers briefly in her ear. Her tension wouldn’t be visible to the untrained eye, but her answering smile is a little too bright and her ensuing sunny greeting is just a little contrived. 

“This is professor Susan Daniels,” Souers continues in introduction. “She’s in charge of student affairs along with professor Thomas. All the children are currently in the auditorium for an assembly, so she’ll be able to take you wherever you need to go.” 

“The other agents on our team will need to interview the students as well,” says Rossi.

The co-principal’s flicker of distress is hastily covered by a fake smile that is almost all teeth. “Yes of course,” he says, nodding reassuringly. “I’ll have Finch call ahead and let them know you’re coming. Now excuse us, we should be off. We have meetings to attend to, but of course let us know if we can help with anything else.”

The two pull out their mobiles just a little too quickly to pass as punctual and not panicked. Rossi and Hotch’s eyes meet briefly as the men walk away. 

“This way, agents. Where would you like to go first?” asks Susan, drawing their attention. She begins to walk the opposite way down the hall, forcing their gazes away from Finch and Souers. 

“Would you mind walking us through the different departments so we can get a feel for the school and for the campus?” asks Rossi. 

Her heels click on the steel floors with each step. “Not at all! If we had the time I would show you every inch of this campus,” she gushes. “It really is a magical place. The kids are taught to be productive, successful adults by the time they graduate. It’s an amazing system.” 

“Speaking of,” begins Hotch. “Could you explain the colored wristbands? We found some on the first three victims, and we notice you are wearing some yourself.” 

She glances down, fingering the edges of the soft strips on her wrist. “These? They designate both academic specialty and grade level. As students master subjects, they gain a band.” She gestures at the gold and purple band on her wrist. “I wear gold to signify that I have completed all the requirements necessary to graduate. It means I’ve mastered all of the skills offered at the academy. The purple lets everyone know that I’ve specialized in computer science and coding specifically.” 

“What are the other colors and what do they mean?” questions Rossi.

“We teach all the main school subjects here. Because of the higher intelligence of our students, though, we end up going pretty in depth with each one. There’s red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and white. The last three denote the teaching staff, the managerial and security positions, and those of the administration, so you won't see those on any of the students. When students first register they receive a white band, and when they graduate they receive gold. White marks their starting point at the academy, before they’ve decided on a specialty. Gold is to recognize all that they’ve mastered. After that there’s social studies, athletics, mathematics, science, languages, and computer science respectively. It’s honestly pretty straight forward once you get used to it.”

They round another grey-walled corner, their steps echoing eerily in the resulting silence. The exterior of the school had been pleasant enough. Well designed roman columns and gothic architecture that lended a studious aesthetic to the academy. This inside, however, was much darker. The interior wouldn’t have been out-of-place at a federal correctional facility. All hard, tiled floors and drab walls. The only color in sight could be found in the wristbands themselves. 

“How long have you worked here?” asks Rossi, making conversation. 

She smiles cheerily, apparently not needing much prompting.

“Geeze… almost two decades now! I started around the same time as professor Thomas and have enjoyed every minute of it. I’m sure he has a lot to do with why this school is so successful nowadays. Since he started working here, disciplinary rates and reports of bad behavior have all but disappeared. He’s great with the students.”

She comes to a stop, having reached their destination. 

“We’re here! No rush, take your time inside. I’ll be waiting out here to give you privacy to work. After you’re done in the administration offices, I’ll show you the student dormitories and classrooms.”

“Thank you,” they say at the same time, stepping inside the doorway. The door shuts with a loud squeal of rusty hinges, closing them in the neatly organized office space. Desks fill much of the room, tablets and laptop computers impinging on much of the available desk top.

Once out of sight Hotch pulls his mobile out and dials Garcia, glancing at the door to confirm she isn’t listening in. He puts it on speaker phone so Rossi can hear as well. 

“Ready to rumble, sirs,” she says in greeting. “I’ve finished looking into the police officers' backgrounds. Didn’t find any obvious yuckiness there. No past criminal history of any kind.”

“Good to know, Garcia. I need you to do the same with all of the school administration. Look into the staff and all registered professors at this school.” 

“If there’s something to be found, I will find it. Fast as lighting.”

“Thanks Penelope.” 

* * *

“Greetings crime fighters! Hotch had me look into the backgrounds of all the school administrators and local police officers. No criminal history found, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. I’ll keep digging.”

“Thanks, P,” says J.J.

“Garcia,” Reid says, leaning closer to the phone in J.J’s hand. “Can you start sifting through known handwriting samples from students registered at the school to see if any match the note we recovered?”

“Normally, I’d complain about the enormous amount of paper work that just landed in my lap,” she whines dramatically. “But thankfully, this school has fully embraced the modern era and all the students’ notes were done on Ipads. It’ll take a moment to run them through my analysis software, but I’ll _hopefully_ be getting back to you with results pretty quickly. Sending love from the nerd cave!”

She hangs up just as the door to the classroom opens. The two agents look up to see a scrawny, squirrly-looking man. He greets them both, his limp handshake noticeably moist and sweaty. Both refrain from wiping their hands on their pants and introduce themselves as they head back into the hallway. Two burly men are stationed directly outside the doorway.

“Hello, I’m professor Thomas,” he says in turn. “The principals called ahead to let me know to expect you. I’ve sequestered the 17 year old students inside the classroom next door for interviews. The rest of the younger students are at an assembly in the auditorium.”

Reid eyes the guards, sizing up their massive forms. A lump on the side of their corduroy pants reveals that they’re both armed with at least one gun.

“Who are they?” he asks, pointing. 

Thomas turns to see who he’s asking about. “Oh them?” he says. “They’re part of our security staff and just started their shift. In light of recent events, we’ve decided to up the number of security personnel on campus.” 

J.J. nods, visibly unaffected, as if armed guards are a totally normal aspect of boarding school life. 

“We’d like to introduce ourselves before interviewing the students, if that’s okay. Have they been informed of the... circumstances?” asks J.J. 

“No, we haven’t informed them yet. But given the abilities of the children at this school, I’m sure they’re suspicious and piecing things together quickly.” 

Thomas reaches to open the door and head into the classroom, but J.J. signals for him to stop.

“We… think it would be best if we talk to them alone.” says Reid. “If we need something, we’ll let you know.” Before he can open his mouth to argue, they duck inside, leaving the door to click shut on his startled face. 

The students are comfortably seated in little friend-group clusters, chatting amongst themselves. They fall silent as the door shuts, and eye the two agents as they situate themselves at the front of the room.

“Hi my name is Jennifer Jareau,” J.J. says in greeting, gesturing to herself. “This is Spencer Reid. We’re both agents with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.” 

The children’s eyes widen comically at this. A tentative hand is raised from one of the smaller clusters in the back of the room.

“Are you here to help find Suzie, Charlie and John?” The owner of the hopeful but quavering voice is a scrawny boy, all bony elbows and knees. 

Before either can respond, a girl near the front interjects.

“They’re dead, aren’t they? I know the statistics for child abductions.” She says, eyes downcast. Her straight, dark hair falls to cover more of her face. “You wouldn’t be here if you were delivering good news.”

J.J.’s lips purse for a second, contemplatively. “You’re right,” she begins, her tone compassionate. “We have some difficult news to deliver.” The kids look expectantly, and she meets their gaze, unflinching. In her experience, it’s best not to dance around painful announcements. Bluntness, in these situations, is often best. “They were killed a few nights ago. Murdered. We were called in to help catch the person who did it.” 

A quiet chime notifies J.J. of a new text message, and she glances down to read it. Reid takes over in the interim, fully meeting the gazes of the stunned students. 

“It’s especially important that we find the perpetrator quickly. Another girl in your age-group, Dana, has also been reported missing. I’d like to emphasize that none of you are in trouble, but we will be pulling you aside one-by-one for individual interviews. We’re experts in the field of behavioral analysis, so understanding the dynamics of this school can potentially break open the case. No details you may remember are insignificant.”

The students nod seriously, gaze fixed on his, but several of their eyes’ are welling up with tears. 

“We’ll be conducting individual interviews in order to ask the more… personal questions. But for now, we would like to ask you some as a group.” 

The members of the group quickly trade glances with one another before signaling their consent to continue.

“Great,” J.J. says, when everyone nods their assent. “First would you mind introducing yourselves?” 

The first to speak is the girl from before. “I’m Amelia Dyer,” she announces. “Red, Yellow, Purple, and Gold.” She then signals for the boy next to her to go. 

“Tony Balaam. Orange and Blue.”

“Joseph Ball. Red, Green, and Gold.”

“Clementine Barabet. I go by Clem. Green and Blue.”

“Cecily Barone. Yellow, Green, Purple.”

“Roberta Berdella. Purple, Green, Yellow.”

“Rudy Bladel. Red, Orange, and Green.”

“Daria Barber. Red, Gold, Blue.”

“I’m Martha Beck. Orange… and White.”

Quiet snickers are quickly stifled by hands and jacket sleeves. Reid and J.J. look at each other, their confusion only shared by them. 

“Are you all pretty close?” asks Reid after a moment.

“Oh yes,” responds Tony. The other students nod vigorously in agreement. “The color groups are like family, so we all get along really well. Especially with all the overlap.” 

J.J. smiles encouragingly. “So a lot of you study the same subjects? Is that why you get along?”

“Well... yes,” says Daria, sounding a little baffled. “That could be part of it. But mainly it’s because we’re the most successful of all the age groups. We have the lowest Whiting rate out of anyone and we have three Gold tracks.” 

Almost everyone smiles broadly at their shared accomplishment. Martha pulls her sleeve down, covering the bands on her wrist, looking red-faced and ashamed. 

“...What exactly does that mean?” prompts J.J. gently. 

Bemusion spreads across all the students’ faces like a highly infectious contagion. After a moment of tense silence, Cecily speaks up.

“Shouldn’t you know already?” She retorts, sassily. The others goggle at them, their eyebrows pulled together in bewilderment. “I know that you probably didn’t graduate from this academy, but, like, you’re obviously Reds and Golds.”

The group watches carefully, waiting to pick apart J.J. and Reid’s reactions. J.J. risks saying a half-truth, hoping it’ll at least keep the conversation moving.

“We… use different terminology at the BAU.”

“You're lying," reply several of the students in tandem, leaning in to better assess their facial expressions. 

“Your blinking and breathing rate increased significantly when you said that,” announces Amelia after a moment. 

J.J. laughs uncomfortably, caught in the lie. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” she apologizes immediately, backpedalling a little. “That _was_ a lie. The truth is, we were lied to as well. We were told that the colors only indicate what academic specialty you study, and whether or not you had finished your studies. I was hoping my statement would evoke an... _unfiltered_ explanation from you.” 

The students' chuckle, hiding the sound of footsteps approaching the door. 

“You specialized in behavior but couldn’t tell they were lying to you?” giggles Daria. 

Reid and J.J. laugh good naturedly. 

“No, we could,” says Reid. “But sometimes it’s better to wait and see how a situation plays out. People often don’t want to tell you the truth, so being patient and observant is often the better option.”

The door opens slightly, but the two agents don’t notice initially. 

“Would you be willing to help us uncover the truth?” asks J.J.

Like a metal partition slamming down, all emotion is wiped from the students’ faces, fear quickly replacing the careful blankness. J.J. turns to see what elicited the change, and notices that the armed guards have moved to stand inside the doorway. The students' eyes are trained on the weapons at their sides. Thomas is right behind them, barely visible beside their bulky forms, but he still manages to effortlessly maneuver into the room.

“I was just wondering if you’re ready for the individual interviews?” he asks, helpfully. “I’m free for the next few hours.”

“Thank you for setting that up,” says Reid. “Given the sensitive nature of the questions we ask, though, it would still be best if the interviews are done by only agent Jareau and I. If you wish, you’re welcome to wait with the students.” 

“Oh, of course. Who would you like to speak to first?” 

* * *

_“Could you state your name for the record?”_

“Tony Balaam.” 

***

“Joseph. Joseph Ball.”

***

“Clementine Barabet”

***

“Cecily Barone.”

***

“Rudy Bladel.” 

***

“Roberta Berdella.”

***

“Martha Beck.”

**_“In your own words, how would you describe the Color system?”_ **

_***_

“It’s… us.” 

***

“Who we are. Everything that makes up our identity.”

***

“What we do, and what we will do.”

***

“The colors represent our core personality, and help shape us into what we’re destined to become.”

****

“They are our potential. What we are meant to be.”

***

“.....42.” 

***

“The noose around my fucking neck.”

**_“What are we missing? What is the administration not telling us?”_ **

“You don’t want to know.”

***

“It’s not worth it.”

***

“I can’t say.”

***

“You can’t stop them. Let it be. It’s easier that way.”

***

“I wish I could tell you” 

***

“Can’t risk it.”

***

“You’re already too late.”

**_“Please. If someone is threatening you, we will protect you. These walls are soundproof. We guarantee nobody is listening in. We just need one person to speak up. Please.”_ **

“[silence]”

***

“[silence]”

***

“[silence]”

***

“[silence]”

***

“[silence]”

***

“[silence]”

***

“Please, put them away. Get them all put away.”

**_“Daria, we will. But you need to tell us everything.”_ **

“I think it’s best if you heard it from Amelia. She’s the one who pieced everything together from the beginning. 

***

**_“Amelia, Is there anything you know that could be helpful to this investiga-_ **

**_“What are you swatting at?”_ **

“Phew! I swear there’s more _bugs_ inside this school than outside. I can’t stand them. Hard to think with all the _bugs_ . Whenever it becomes too much for me, I go to the fountain. It’s beautiful. Great place to _figure things out._ It’s a bit noisy, though. We would still be able to hear each other fine over the water.”

**[silence]**

**_“I would love to come see the fountain. How about once we finish up these interviews we can meet you there. 7 pm work for you?”_ **

“It’s a date.” 

* * *

“Hey Penelope, we need you to look into something. Amelia Dyer suggested in her interview that the entire school is bugged with auditory and video surveillance. Any way to check that?”

“....I’d say the paper trail showing that they’ve invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into spyware for the school is pretty conclusive evidence.” 

“Roger that. Any other updates for us?”

“No I don’t think s- OH! Oh god! Report just filed. T-they found Dana Grey’s body, and another student has just been reported missing. Daria. You just interviewed her, I think. Video shows her being pulled into an unmarked van literally moments ago.” 

“We need to call Hotch. This is quickly turning into a spree.” 

  
  



	3. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dana's crime scene is investigated, and horrifying things are realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for like... icky stuff typical of this show.

“Garcia? I need you to patch in the rest of the team.” Hotch speeds down the roadway, sirens blaring. 

The faint clacking of Penelope’s nails strumming rapidly over the keys is loud enough to be clearly audible even with the distortion of the phone and ambient traffic noise. She takes only a moment to respond.

“Aaaaaand done! Can everyone hear okay?” asks Penelope. 

“Morgan and Emily here. Crystal clear.”

“Yep,” adds Reid. “Everything is good on our end too. J.J.’s here with me.” 

Hotch responds in kind, but in his moment of distraction, nearly misses his turn. He impatiently flips on the turn signal, and takes the corner altogether too fast, leaving skid marks in his wake. The rude gesture thrown in his direction is promptly ignored. 

“We clearly need to regroup,” he says to the group. “But first we all need to get to that crime scene before it can be tampered with. They found Dana’s body near the first dump site, right off the administration buildings, and Daria was grabbed off a side street not far from that. Meet at the school in ten. We can update each other from there.” 

“From what we’ve seen so far, it’s likely that they’ll try to destroy any forensic evidence as soon as possible,” sighs Emily. “With our luck they’ll have already disposed of the body. Probably tried to burn the remains.” 

“Do you really think they’d do something so easily traced back to them?” questions Reid. 

“Yes,” Hotch frowns. “So we better hurry” 

* * *

They arrive not a moment too late, tires squealing on the blacktop as they screech to a stop in front of the administration building. The doors of their sedans are thrown open and they’re out of their vehicles within the span of a few seconds.

The officers on scene are in the beginning stages of an apparent on-site cremation. Their backs are turned and they don’t immediately see the B.A.U. agents converging on the location.

_ “PUT THE LIGHTERS DOWN,”  _ roars Morgan in his best Fed voice. “What the  _ hell _ do you think you’re doing!?” 

The officer closest to them startles violently, but they both immediately obey and return the lighters to their pockets. At Morgan’s yell the other officials on scene come over to see what’s happening, the on-site M.E. taking over the preparations for the body’s transfer. The two officers, still poised over Dana, rise from their crouched positions and turn to face the approaching agents. They looked decidedly guilty at being caught in the act. Dana’s pale form on the ground beside them, thankfully, looks relatively undisturbed. 

Hotch levels his most effective glare at the two, exuding dominance and authority.

“Officers, my agents and I are now taking over this investigation in full,” orders Hotch. “Our technical analyst has already had the request approved and processed. From this point forward the case is fully under the jurisdiction of the FBI.” 

The officers look like they want to argue, but remain silent nonetheless. Given their culpability in the current situation, this is somewhat unsurprising.

“We are having an independent M.E. flown over from Anchorage. Once we load up the body, we would appreciate an escort to the examiner’s lab so we can conduct a full, independent evaluation.”

Both officers nod, defeated, and begin following directions. 

“Oh and you’re under arrest,” adds Rossi, eyeing the officers. “You have the right to remain silent.” 

They’re back on the road within minutes. 

* * *

The independent medical examiner arrives in record time. She’s a small, grey-haired woman, all wrinkles and soft skin and looks like she’s nearly a hundred years old. Her eyes appear to have cataracts, but her grip is firm and she greets the agents with a bright smile. The younger members of the team glance at one another when she fumbles a handshake with Rossi, worried about the safety of her wielding a scalpel, but Garcia promises that the woman has been well-vetted and is highly skilled in her profession. Still dubious, they signal for her to begin. 

She takes only a moment to orient herself in the borrowed morgue, snaps on a pair of latex exam gloves, and dives right in. Literally. 

The seven agents patiently watch as she makes her assessments, noting the clear gunshot C.O.D on Dana’s head, and the lack of defensive wounds on her arms. A more thorough assessment is still obviously needed, but immediate information is essential due to the urgency of this case. So, once it’s clear that her initial examination is coming to an end, they begin asking questions. 

“Did you find anything on her person?” 

She nods, still focused on the corpse before her. 

“There was a flash drive in her left front pocket, but it seems to have been stepped on. Totally unusable. Crushed nearly beyond recognition.”

She gestures toward the bottom half of Dana’s body before gently lifting one of her pale arms. “No signs of sexual assault, and no defensive wounds. Chances are she knew the person that killed her. It seems like they wanted her out of the way as quickly as possible. The kill was painless, efficient. She was dead before she hit the ground.” 

“That fits with our profile,” observes Reid. “From what we know the unsub has to be either a school official or one of the cops.”

“Both are definitely involved, regardless,” adds J.J. 

The M.E. continues inspecting the open body cavity as they talk. She pauses for a moment, before grabbing some forceps and bending down for a closer look. “Hang on,” she mumbles. “There’s something… inside her. Here, look.”

The agents gather round to peer at the revealed, foreign object. It’s cylindrical, clearly a container of some sort. The outside of it is smeared and too dirty to ascertain its contents, so the M.E. puts on new, sterile gloves and wipes the vial down with a tissue, which is then stored with the rest of the evidence to be processed. She then pops the lid open, and pours out the few objects inside onto the plastic-covered tabletop. 

They all lean in closer to get a better view. Immediately, everyones’ faces but Reid’s scrunch with confusion. 

“...Is that-?” begins Reid.

The small tube had within it a single strand of hair, a bloodstained piece of paper, and a presumably used cheek swab. 

“What is it, kid?” asks Derek. 

Spencer hurriedly turns to the M.E.

“You need to send this to the lab, and tell them to rush it. It’s exactly what we would need.” 

“Need? For what?” asks Emily. 

“For a paternity test. Dana gave us all the DNA we need to confirm paternity.”

The M.E. collects the contents back into the vial, and heads out the door. “I’ll send it off right away,” she says. 

* * *

“Okay, explain Reid.” 

Spencer nods, dialing Garcia. “I have a theory, but I want to see if there’s any evidence that supports it first.”

She picks up on the first ring, jumping in before anyone else can speak. “Ohhhhhh” she exclaims, nearly shouting in her excitement. “Do  _ I have tea to SPILL!” _ . 

“What did you find Garcia?” 

“ _ Listen, _ ” she announces gleefully. “I have hit the motherload! Remember how I thought nobody at the school or precinct had a criminal record? Well I was right, but also kind of not. Let me explain. It’s not that they don’t have a criminal record, it’s that there’s no criminal  _ record.  _ Get it?” 

“...No,” says everyone but Reid, shaking their heads. 

“See, I was only looking at official reports done by the school or police. And in that case, there are none. And I mean  _ none.  _ Zip. nada. Not a single report filed.” She huffs dramatically. “The takeover of this administration marks the end of any sort of documentation or record.”

“ _ So?”  _ prompts Morgan. 

“ _ So _ ,” continues Garcia. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I went  _ honey badger on them.  _ I did what I do best, and I dug, and I searched, and I uncovered all sorts of dirt. If you cross reference hospital records with students enrolled at the academy, you’ll see major discrepancies in the information documented. And  _ that’s  _ important because it shows that the school and police are participating in a massive cover-up. They’re trying to hide the…  _ ickiness _ going on by not reporting it, hoping a lack of paper trail will prevent it from being found. But they can only control their end of the information pipeline, and _ I found what they were hiding. _ ” 

“And what exactly did you find?” asks Hotch, getting impatient. 

“I was getting to that. I, um… called in some  _ favors _ and was able to get the rushed paternity test results, like,  _ super rushed.  _ And they came in just before I called. I was able to cross-match the results with all known DNA in our system and I came up with  _ two _ matches, as well as two very horrifying conclusions.” Garcia pauses for dramatic effect, the tension ratcheting up in the ensuing silence. “The sample found within Dana Gray revealed that she has a four year old son named Daniel Barone. This is where things start to get icky. The father,  Danny Barber, was a serial killer who died in prison six years ago, but the police had a rape case on file in evidenc e that contained some of Barber’s DNA.”

“ _ What!?”  _ breathes Emily. 

“Oh, cool your jets, honey bunches, because it gets so much worse. This is where we cross from the land of the weird to the land of the  _ disturbingly _ icky. The medical files I used for my cross referencing seem to confirm several patterns at both the academy and the police station. Every female student over the age of 15 has undergone a minor medical procedure that precedes a leave of absence lasting a little over 9 months. These dates then directly correspond with new students joining the 3 year old age group at the academy roughly 3 years later, with no parents listed on their birth certificate. The only paper trail is their official registration with the school, where they’re documented as orphans. This is doubly creepy because around the time of each… conception, there’s deleted files from the police computers that detail how ‘important biological evidence had gone missing’ from lock-up. Which means…”

“This isn't the first time this has happened. The academy officials and police will do anything to stop this information from becoming public, even murder. Anyone with knowledge of this is in mortal danger. Which means Amelia Dyer needs to be put into protective custody, and we need to find the unsub responsible for the murders, and fast.” 

  
  



	4. Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN;;; it has been almost a year since I've last updated this story. I blame 2020. The year STARTED with my entire hometown on fire and went downhill from there. I was so fucking close to abandoning this story, but instead I decided on whipping out the final chapters. I cut a lot of the plot, so it's very bare-bones but it's what I can manage. Enjoy my unedited, word-vomit extravaganza. I'm literally gonna just type straight into the AO3 text box. All mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

They drive, if possible, even faster. Gas pedals are pressed flat to the floor, speedometer needles flipping to the other end of the device so swiftly the motion is nearly invisible. 

“Sir?” 

“Yes Garcia?” Hotch swings the car around a corner, not even bothering to hit the turn signal this time. 

“ Someone’s trying to hack our system right now. They aren’t even trying to hide their tracks.” 

“How closely can you triangulate the signal?” The team is approximately four minutes out from the school, cutting the 7 p.m. rendezvous with Amelia close. Hotch pushes his foot even harder against the pedal, the older sedan squealing and groaning in protest. 

“I can do you one better. The signal is coming from one… Amelia Dyer. She’s still on campus, but on the move…. And she’s trying to send us something.” Furious clacking can be heard on the other end for several minutes. “Sir, what should I do?” 

“Let her in.” The trio of dark sedan’s screech into the parking lot at dangerous speeds. In the distance, a fountain can be seen, but nobody is in the vicinity. 

“She probably thinks we missed the meeting,” comments Emily as she climbs out of the passenger side seat. The group moves off toward the fountain. 

Garcia’s frantic typing can be heard all the while, the tinny clicks projecting through the cheap phone speakers of each of their mobiles. 

They reach the stone structure just as the noise and activity from Garcia’s end ceases. The scene is in complete disarray. An expensive-looking laptop lays discarded on a nearby bench, an array of papers fanned out around it. What was presumably Amelia’s book-bag is now just a few torn scraps of fabric-- the violence of the tableau captured by that single remnant. 

Reid bends down to examine the evidence, surprised to see that the laptop is relatively unharmed. 

Garcia, having been immersed in analyzing whatever documents were sent to her, is unaware of current happenings, yet her monotone announcement still manages to be appropriate. They all simultaneously glance down as their phones crackle to life once more. “Sir I think this goes without saying, but you  _ really _ need to hurry.” 

* * *

Reid, in the end, is the one who ends up with the laptop. He somehow winded up in Morgan’s car this time in the chaos, and his driving, unlike J.J’s, is full of jolts and bumps and his fingers just keep  _ hitting the wrong buttons and- _

“Garcia?” he grunts, frowning at the keys. “Can you hack in remotely?”

He’s nearly thrown against the passenger window but manages to snag the bar overhead with his free-hand. Morgan smirks. 

“It’s password protected. Multi-level security,” Garcia chimes in. “It almost looks like… those forgot-your-password, security question prompts? We’re given a series of hints and have to guess the password from that and-

“Oh.” 

“What is it, P?” questions Emily from the other car. 

“She designed it so only  _ we  _ would be able to answer them. They’re personalized to us. The first one is ‘cold glass mark.”

The pause is impressively brief before Rossi guesses the correct answer. “Culaccino. It’s italian.”

The rest are answered just as quickly. 

“‘I want him to believe in-’” prompts Penelope. 

“Love,” replies Hotch. 

“What kind of rose is  _ Pachliopta jophon?”  _

J.J answers. “Ceylon. It’s a butterfly known as the Ceylon Rose.” 

“Right,” says Garcia, speedily typing in the responses. The next hint is just… ‘stress hands.’ Any ideas?”

“Onychophagy,” reply Prentiss and Reid at the same time. Spencer makes a surprised sound through the phone, startled that she would know such an obscure term. 

“Nail-biting,” she explains. “I might as well know the technical term for my bad-habits,” 

“In string theory,” Penelope continues, “what is the suffix used to denote the superpartners of bosons?”

“INO” says Reid.

“Original name for the tallest building in the western hemisphere?”

“The Sears Tower. In Chicago,” supplies Morgan. 

“The last prompt is: ‘the black queen.” The steady clacking of Garcia’s nails on the keys speeds up for a second. “Happy Fun Meow Meow.’ Now, let’s take a look at what is on this computer.” 

* * *

The silence is nearly deafening as Penelope reads. Finally, it breaks. 

“Amelia has kept a record of everything that has happened. And I mean  _ everything.  _ There’s so much that I don’t think I can even deliver it all in my usual sassy, witty, clever way. It’s going to be just stream-of-consciousness as I get to it, ok? _ ” _

“We know you’ll do your best, Sweetness,” says Morgan, the smile clear in his voice.

“OK, so pretty much-” Garcia’s voice flattens into a more serious tone. “-pretty much every intelligence organization in the U.S. has been wiring funds to this school behind the scenes. FBI, CIA,  _ all of them.  _ The Headmasters of the academy and the Head of Student Affairs have been skimming off the top as well, which doesn’t sound like much but is still, like, a boatload of money. We’re talking millions. The police department, as we already suspected, are in on it as well. They get a sizeable cut for managing the coverup. And that’s just the financial stuff.”

She takes a second to breathe, and more likely, pause for dramatic effect. 

“Amelia has also recorded and documented signed statements from students of all the allegations against the school. She also included DNA Samples. They ran the tests themselves and confirmed that--  _ jinkies _ . All the girls at the school were pregnant at one time or another. Apparently they were inseminated while undergoing standard dental or medical procedures. All paternity tests do in fact match to serial killers that had samples stored at the police department. And that’s not all. All the... Sperm donors had genius level IQs. Amelia says that the school wanted to see if growing and training the perfect agent were possible... which explains the interest of all the intelligence agencies.”

“The children born through this were entered into the system as orphans to prevent the connection being made,” continues Garcia. “The plan was that they would make up the next generation of students at the school.”

“Amelia has a daughter, who she states is being held captive to ensure her silence.” 

Rossi is the first to interrupt her narration, and he does so tentatively. “Does she have any clue as to the identity of the unsub?”

“The person who signed off on everything was…. Thomas Marvil Oliver Riddhil. And-”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” interjects Morgan. “Tom Marvil O. Riddhil?”

Garcia ignores him, and her involuntary gulp can be heard even over the phone as she finishes digesting the rest of the information. 

-”And he owns a property right off of campus. Large plot of land, accessible to the dump site. Amelia was threatening to spill everything, hand everything over to us.”

“That must have been the trigger,” finishes Reid. 

“Let’s go,” commands Hotch.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this story, I'm sorry it took so long. Life, man. It bitch-slapped me into 2021. :P


	5. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending?? In this show?? It's more likely than you would think!

They get there in the nick of time, guns drawn and blazing. 

The professor looks decidedly less weaselly this time, advancing on the three cowering children in the corner of the subterranean cell, his eyes flashing madly. The girls are shackled to metal loops in the wall, unable to avoid the murderer as he moves toward them. Amelia is covering a pale, thin-boned girl with her body, her arms thrown over an unconscious Daria laying nearby. She stares defiantly at Tom who is pointing a gun at her head, then curls inward to better shield the younger child from whatever impact she knows is coming. 

The agents pour into the room just in time to hear Tom roar, “Don’t you turn your back on me! I want to look at you when I kill you! I want to see the light leave your eyes!”

Reid, surprisingly, is the first to get a clear shot on Riddhil. His hands are steady and his gaze is unwavering. 

“ _ FBI! Put the gun  _ **_down!”_ **

Tom keeps his weapon trained on the girls, moving so that a clean shot cannot be taken easily without risking their lives. Facing away from the agents, he murmurs, “I wouldn’t have hurt them if they had just stayed silent.”

“We know…” Rossi replies softly from across the small room. just put the gun down. You don’t need to hurt anyone else.” 

Tom finally turns to face the group. Then, with a decisive movement he pulls his gun upward to point at-

_ Bang.  _

Reid shoots again, a perfect head-shot. The unsub falls lifelessly to the ground. Reid holds his position, gun drawn, frozen in shock.

“Nice shot, Harry Potter. You iced Voldemort,” exclaims Morgan, moving beside him and clapping a hand against Reid’s bullet-proof vest. 

“....I was aiming for his leg.”

Rossi and J.J. unshackle the girls, cradling the two gently when they dive into their arms. Hotch yells out the doorway for a medic, the flashing lights visible through the still-open entryway. 

“We’re going to have to deal with months of Harry potter puns, aren’t we?” breathes Emily, suddenly exhausted. 

Morgan smiles wickedly in reply. 

* * *

They’re comfortably settled on the jet, and well on their way home, when Garcia calls for the final update. Spencer and J.J. are roused from where they lay, not-fully-asleep but drowsily conscious on the plane’s reclining seats. Emily and Morgan remove their headphones, turning around in their seats to better see Penelope on the small screen. Rossi and Hotch are already ready and attentive. 

“All intelligence agencies involved are being formally investigated,” begins Garcia, without preamble. “Including all relevant branches of the FBI. Entire teams are being fired. The least of the charges include child endangerment and fraud. Pretty much every police officer in the department is being punished for their actions. Most will receive prison time. The department is shutting down, but community groups and other organizations are stepping in to help manage in the interim.”

“The entire school is being dismantled, but the students are going to be allowed to stay together. They are, in a way, still orphans. But they’ve decided to stay on campus and live as a family. It gives me hippy, commune-vibes, which I totally dig. The school is the only home they’ve ever known, so it makes sense.” 

“Amelia is the first to turn 18. Today was her birthday, so she’s legally becoming the parental guardian to everyone else. I may have… helped push that paperwork through though.” 

“All the children have been returned to their biological parents: the older students at the school. They all ultimately decided against adoption, even though I made it clear that it was a totally viable option.”

Sighs and smiles of relief circle the plane. 

“Oh and last thing, before I go! I’ve offered to be Amelia’s mentor with coding and computer programming. I think she shows a lot of promise, and she accepted my offer! We may have a baby FBI analyst in the making. She’ll be flying in to visit Quantico in the next few months once things calm down.” 

Garcia signs off with a brilliant smile, genuine happiness suffusing her features, before the screen goes dark. 

The residents of the jet allow the warm glow of the good end to the case to simmer for a few seconds, enjoying the camaraderie and shared joy. 

Morgan ruins it with six words. 

Twirling a pen in his hand like a tiny wand, snickering unashamedly, he says: “So you could say that, ‘In the end, all was well.’

The dramatic, joking groans of protest are just beginning to fade when the screen flares back to life, only for a few seconds. 

Garcia’s pleading face appears, as if summoned by magic. “I’m so sorry I started this ball rolling with my Harry Potter reference. I regret it immensely and I hope it doesn’t impact my future employment in the FBI.”

Rossi rubs at his temples, as if staving off a headache. 

“We’ll discuss it when we get back,” Hotch says, secretly smiling, his face pressed defeatedly against the flight tray table. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments always appreciated. :) 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this story, and with me. Love y'all <3
> 
> I legitimately did not edit this or even read the last two chapters before posting. So if there's a super, mega mistake LMK.


End file.
